


Shivering

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 20:35:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the Les Mis kink meme. Feuilly and Jehan cuddling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shivering

The back of the Musain, for all its benefits, for all the beauties each of the amis would laud if the subject arose, was a draughty place. The windows were often reluctant to close, and even if they were being particularly co-operative one evening, the room would fill so rapidly and thickly with smoke from cigarettes, cigars and accidentally extinguished candles that Enjolras would demand them to be open again within the hour.

Thusly, most of them got used to bringing their coats on a cold night. In the summers, of course, they could comfortably go without, and even strip off their waist-coats, vests and cravats to be in their shirts only (Bahorel could often be convinced to go entirely shirtless, but this was more to do with everyone’s fascination with his scars and tattoos than a worry for his bearing the heat), but in the winters, coats were necessary.

Jehan Prouvaire’s coat was a nice one. It was a soft violet, high at the collar, thick, warm. It rather suited him, particularly when he had a carnation in its top buttonhole (if anyone noted a similarity between Jehan’s fashion and that of one of the Patron-Minette, it went unmentioned), and it never failed to keep Jehan warm.

On this night, Jehan had forgotten his coat. Feuilly had sighed when the boy entered, shivering a little alongside Courfeyrac, who never shivered, perhaps because his natural bounce and energy kept him warm even naked with the last fire extinguished, perhaps because he was simply too stubborn a man to succumb to any force that was not in the form of a person he considered a delight.

Jehan initially settled next between Combeferre and Enjolras, because his handwriting was fluid, pretty and clearly legible, in high demand when it came to setting out pamphlets. Enjolras had said he had a stamp coming in from somewhere soon to save each of their aching wrists from writing out the damn things, likely at a request and a pretty smile to one of the blacksmith’s on the other side of the city, Feuilly thought, but Enjolras had not yet revealed his methods, and Feuilly was not going to press when Enjolras treated him with such respect.

It was when Jehan’s hand began to shake and he  _nearly_  spilled ink on the paper before him (Enjolras caught the bottle with a nimble hand) that Combeferre gently settled a hand on his shoulder and murmured in his ear, and Jehan nodded obediently, quietly, and moved away.

He moved over to where Grantaire and Feuilly were seated together, taking Grantaire’s bottle from his hand and swigging before politely returning it, and Grantaire chuckled a little. He initially went to grasp the back of a chair, but Feuilly caught him by the hips, pulling him close and bundling Jehan into his lap, wrapping his coat quite firmly around Jehan - because Feuilly’s coat was a good deal too large for him, and when one struggled at the best of times, one did not bother about getting a smaller one.

"Oh!" Jehan exclaimed, and he did not draw away; he was soon pressing closer, his knees against Feuilly’s hip and his face against the working man’s neck. 

"You are a sop." Grantaire proclaimed to Feuilly, and the working man shrugged, putting his pen to the paper in front of him to continue his work with Jehan held close to him.

"So be it: I am a sop."

"You are not a sop. You are my gloried saviour, a keeper of warmth and fire." Jehan said dreamily, and Feuilly snorted.

"So be it: I am that also."

"How did you forget your coat this eve, Prouvaire?" Grantaire asked, lips curving into a smirk around the bottle - and like any of his teasing directed at a man who was not Enjolras, his tone was light, with no vicious slant to it at all. "Did you lose your head to the clouds?"

"I was most enchanted at the sight of a young gamin boy. He had a sort of make-shift pushcart and was using it to quite impressively transport a quite _entirely_  impressive man of snow about the streets. Why, I could not help but follow him he was so gleeful in his mischief, upsetting a good half-dozen police inspectors, and by the time I realized it was time for me to meet our fellow Courfeyrac it was much too late to retrieve my coat.”

"You didn’t feel the cold without it?"

"I was warm with excitement and the flurry of youth and rushing about the Parisienne streets, my friend. It’s only now in my stillness that I feel it."

"You would forget your head if it were not attached to you at the neck." Feuilly said, mildly reproachful, and Jehan’s laughter was like music.

"Wouldn’t that be a sight, though!" He settled then, went quiet with his cheek against Feuilly’s shoulder, and in twenty minutes or so, Feuilly glanced down at him and noticed that the younger man’s eyes were closed.

"He is sleeping." Feuilly said to Grantaire, and the drunkard snorted.

"He sleeps little in his bed, my friend, it’s no surprise that given a warm lap to seat himself he would soon drowse as a kitten does. Allow him Morpheus’ embrace, I’m certain he will rouse himself when our esteemed leader picks up his tongue and sets about expostulating." Feuilly hummed quietly, and he pressed a careful, tender kiss to Jehan’s forehead where auburn curls began. "You are a sop." Grantaire repeated decidedly, and Feuilly chuckled a little.

"Yes, Grantaire, I do believe I am."


End file.
